Fighting
by capricorn5
Summary: A relationship with Sherlock Holmes isn't easy and John Watson knows it better than anyone. Johnlock.


Loving him is far from easy.

It's not only the way he doesn't always mean 'I love you' when he calls me idiot, or his struggle with words. He has never told me that he loves me yet but I don't mind. I know he does. The things he has done for me, because of me, are proof enough. But when we are both mad at each other because the trace in our personality that the other can't take arises, it isn't easy to deal with someone who's not used to use words to ask for forgiveness.

Sometimes, after cooling off, he makes me a cup of tea and gives it to me, making pressure on my shoulder, briefly. We look at each other and, if I take the cup he offers me, he knows he is forgiven. I know that's the way he does things. He is only good with words as long as he doesn't have to fill them with sentiment.

It's frustrating. We have shared so much. And I don't mean only physically. Of course there is that too; long hours lying together on a couch that is far too small for the both of us but neither I nor he minds. Combing his hair with my fingers as he reads to me or tells me stories he already knows by heart. Placing my head right next to his legs as he plays the violin, and he starts playing my favourite tune because he knows I am listening. Being busy in front of each other but sharing smiles once in a while, just to let the other know they are noticed. Touching each other's hands for an instant as we wander in different directions, from one division to another. Simple things. Still, despite all this, despite the passionate way he holds me against the wall and kisses every bit of my skin when we find ourselves alone, despite the way we lie in each other's arms after we make love and we say nothing, relishing only on the sound of our breath, of our encompassed hearts, I can't help but to feel at times that I am at loss.

He has accesses of fury on boring days and I know he means to scream more at himself than he means to scream at me. But I just can't help the feeling of emptiness left by our fights. Because he can't control his bad moods and I can't control the way they upset me. I don't mind his silence; it's the roaring, the engines racing, which scare me.

He hides things. Even nowadays I end up finding about things that I don't mean to, but after knowing about them I can't do anything else than confronting him with it. There were times his life was at stake, people were after him, and I would not know. That scares me. I know it's not about trust, he does trust me. But I would rather be concerned than having things omitted to me. And he just can't understand that.

Right now he is leaning against the wall, a bandage all around his forehead, the curls of his hair wet against it. I am sitting on the floor, my back against the couch, trying to see a way to figure this out. I raise my head to look at him and the calm in his expression is only superficial. I see the nervousness he tries to hide in his eyes, ready to surface. The fight we had as I took care of his bandage was about the case he got involved in, about how reckless he was, but it ended up becoming about us. And now, as I sit looking up at him, I feel mostly lost. We both said bad things. True, maybe, but bad nevertheless.

My eyes meet his and I think he sees it then: disappointment. I don't even try to hide it this time. I've hidden too many things for too long, I understood his needs, his own traits of personality. But why do I have to be the one to make sacrifices? He knows me better than anyone, he is aware love is far from enough. I need him to shape to me as I have shaped to him. I need him to lose the facade right now and stop pretending he doesn't care. I want him to admit his guilt and make me a cup of tea so that I can forgive him.

He moves at last, heading for the kitchen and, as if reading my thoughts, he puts the kettle on. He picks a cup – his cup – and the tea. It must require effort to make, his head is probably killing him, but he does not vacillate.

He approaches me – I am looking at the floor again – and he gets on his knees, offering me the cup of tea. I make no move. He then sits by my side, placing the mug on the floor.

"I'm sorry." he says.

It's the first time he apologies this way and I fight the urge to hold his hand or to punch him, they are both equally strong. As I do not answer, he places each one of his hands on each side of my face, forcing me to look at him. I can't believe I still love him.

"I won't do it again." he tries.

I clear my throat.

"How can I be sure of that? How can I be sure that you won't just go around solving crimes on your own, getting severely injured…"

I shut up; I don't want to start the fight all over again. He takes advantage of my silence.

"I promise."

I look at him.

"Why should I believe you?"

He opens his mouth to speak but he says nothing for a few seconds. Then he holds my hand. I don't have the energy to stop him.

"Because I love you."

He sighs, looking away, as if saying the words had taken too much effort.

"I just have never learned how to show it properly."

He then looks at me and I look back at him. It's not yet fixed, but it's better.

"You look ridiculous with that bandage." I point out.

He takes his free hand to the head and smiles. Then, he passes me the cup of tea.

I take it.

We sit together in silence for a long time, staring ahead, at nothing in particular. And as I remember the way the words sounded when he pronounced them, I realise that I may have lost quite a few battles with him. But I definitely won the war.


End file.
